


I'm all but washed (in the tide of her breathing)

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Genderbending, Genderswap, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 00:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: She reaches long arms around her; her blooming Prussian blue rose, her darling ink-spilled sky of silver constellations—and Constance feels a presence behind her a split second before there’s an arm snaking its way around her stomach, pressing very gently.





	I'm all but washed (in the tide of her breathing)

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting my fanfictions from tumblr here.

* * *

 

She reaches long arms around her; her blooming Prussian blue rose, her darling ink-spilled sky of silver constellations— and Constance feels a presence behind her a split second before there’s an arm snaking its way around her stomach, pressing very gently; the Obscurus sparks up from the sweater-framed back in rolls of gasoline dust and crackling, sizzling little bolts of lightning, until it recognises the bearer of those hands  _(a compass, a path, a polestar)—_

Graves’ hand slips under Constance’s knitted sweater, caressing her belly through the fine, white shirt she always has on along her suit, an arm over her middle— and she lets out a quiet sigh of pleasure.

“Hi,” Graves murmurs in her ear, pressing herself against Constance’s back, a kiss losing itself in her soft, short dark curls; outside, the sun is leaking all over the pavement and warms the asphalt up, just like Constance does when she’s so close, the warming rays of her quiet brightness beaming everywhere. “What are you making?”

The shock of her beauty, always; a fence to sunset, or the way leaves fall to the ground, from different heights and dancing with the wind.

A sheepish grin forms on the younger woman’s face and she picks up the little star-shaped cookies her partner is indicating to her, pointing at them with the end of her perfectly-painted dark-brown nail.

“Early tries for cookies so I don’t look like a fool when Hanukkah happens at the Goldsteins?”

“Darling, your cooking skills are wonderful,” Graves huffs, a scowl settling on her face as she rolls her eyes and presses another kiss to her beloved’s curls; her warm breath washes over Constance’s ear. “ _Especially_  compared to mine. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

There’s a soft, sarcastic laugh escaping Constance’s mouth at that  _(Mercy Lewis does Graves like this sound, even aimed at mocking her under gentle beads of light and sweet humour)._ “Your cooking skills are non-existent, my love.”

_Will the fluttering of her heartbeat ever settle and be shushed when Constance stands there? Will rain beating down making puddles in the mud stop hissing, someday? She’s hers and whispers need to crawl back under the ground._

Constance steps to the side and goes over to the counter to start kneading and cutting the dough into tiny circular shapes, Graves watching over her shoulder for a while and dropping butterfly kisses along the shape of her neck. “And those?” and her eyes, her eyes— staring back at her lover with large, autumn irises, filled with black desire and white powder  _(murmurs of the Obscurus, the Obscurus, always)_ when she turns around a little toward the older woman.

She keeps working it, pressing the dough into a round shape as it curls around her fingers like one of Newt’s kneazles— Constance examines her hand for a moment, which she finds damp with butter. “Sugfaniyot filled with jelly— you know, the one I made last year?”

Graves arches a delicate, dark eyebrow. “The strawberry one?”

Constance nods gently. “Put the jars in the cellar. Would you care to bring me one, please?”

“What do I get in exchange?” Graves shoots back with a slight smirk flitting across her mouth, eyebrows raised; black, depthless eyes opening up like white clouds of jasmine devouring Constance’s insides, gnawing at them; how they darken the room suddenly like a stain spreading— spreading and taking up over the map in the most delicious ways.

Side by side, leg over leg as they stand against the counter, Constance’s hip presses uncomfortably into the wood— flashing emerald lights  _(in bed, shaken in sleep)_ with each of Graves’ butterfly lashes waving at her; the sun is dying on the sharp line of the horizon by the window as it filters through buildings and vertiginous heights of metal and materials.

“Hmm,” the young woman hums softly through her red, plump lips, “would a kiss be enough for my sweetheart?”

“Your sweetheart would be  _beyond happy_  to be blessed with your kiss.”

Constance rolls her eyes. “Come here, you ridiculous woman.”

Graves does as she’s told and leans into Constance with a smile; she looks so warm, and so inviting, so beautiful and adorable with a bit of flour powdered on her left cheek  _(and Graves, Graves knows how it got there; she always knows and sees how her darling brushes the bouncy strands away from her face with the back of her peachy-pink hand where copper lines and silver curves bite into the skin; how she always does this, this simple gesture of pushing hair out of the way and leaving a trail of edible dust along her features; and Graves’ heart thunders a little against her ribcage because Constance is a most precious thing in her life)._

She can’t resist her, never quite can; and she barely has time to think that a long, hungry kiss laced with green electricity and breathless intensity happens, Graves pulling her lover tighter until there’s no room between them at all; she rubs her thumb idly against the back of Constance’s lower back as the embrace settles there. Constance moans small, approving noises as Graves explores, sounds that make her toes curl, the tips of her strands warm and her hands more than a little prying.

_Like steam from a hot tea kettle; boiling down and burning brown, curled up leaves shrinking into heaps of mush; be mine, be mine, be mine._

She can’t help the way her heart starts to hammer in her chest, can’t help the eruption of her golden blue magic along her forearms or the way Constance’s mouth makes her go weak in the knees. A hundred mornings and no telling on which nightmare would or wouldn’t rip her open, turning this bitter tongue of hers to ashes and dead fireflies of her insides out to mere crushed hopes.  _Music gone forever,_  she thought.

Then found Constance.

And Constance found her, too.

_You are afraid that the ice will crack, aren’t you?_

An act of—

_Finding dawn? And—_

_Seasons,_  she thinks, Constance nipping at her lower lip,  _changing constantly ever since the day she came into my life._


End file.
